Page 16 of Feral Alphas

Only two alphas seem immune to my heat; the bleached-haired one on the right who hasn’t reappeared after that first curious glance, and the dark-haired man on the left who seems glued to the bars. His continuous low rumble hasn’t stopped since I first whined and he stands there, like some kind of naked, stone guardian.

I wouldn’t know if the other one is making noises, but he struck me as the silent type. Terrible scars ring his throat, so for all I know, his vocal chords might have been ruined in a fight.

Asthe fighters come back, Petrov, the driver, and two other men help a doctor subdue each one inside the cell so they can apply first aid, and from the growls, it sounds like they stitch them up without anesthetic.

I’ve been dropped into the darkest of hells and no one knows I’m here except for these wild man-beasts and their merciless keepers.

The statue alpha growls threateningly as Petrov comes to chase him through the doorway, and I haul myself off the bed to watch him back slowly out into the darkened chute beyond. I can’t say why I care or why I stand there clinging to the cold bars as the minutes tick by and the ground thrums underfoot with the roar of the blood-thirsty crowd who cheer for his injury.

Petrov sees me waiting by the bar and wanders over. “I’m surprised you can stand up with that musk you’re emitting. Do you want to see?” He tilts his screen my way and leans on the bars. “We call him Mufasa, and he’s one of our top two dogs. From this match we’ll decide which mutt we’re putting in the championship ring next month.”

Two brawny alphas face each other in an arena surrounded by thick mesh. A shuttered doorway rises at either wing, which must be the chutes leading back here to the cells. Mufasa crosses in front of one closed doorway as the fighters circle each other, both slick with blood.

“I’ve never seen him so alert. He’s a great fighter, but he’s the hardest one to focus.” Petrov clicks his tongue. “It’ll be the death of him one day.”

As I watch, Mufasa skips forward with a vicious punch that makes me gasp, batting away the contender’s raised knee. The dark-haired alpha surges in faster than I can see with a takedown that resoundswith a heavy wham. His fists blur as he lays into the other man, raining heavy blows like hail that cuts the man’s face to shreds. Blood flows across the floor, and the fighter slips twice.

Petrov whistles and clenches forward in excitement. “That’s our mutt! Pegasus Kennels are not gonna be happy about this!”

The contender doesn’t get up, and after a few more hits he goes limp. With every punch he rebounds slightly off the rubber mats.

I lean into the cold metal bars. “He’s finished. Aren’t they going to stop the match?”

Petrov laughs. “No.”

“What if he kills him?” I gasp, clenching around my aching belly as another spasm of pain roars through me.

He grins. “That’s the fun of it. Not only do we bet on the winner, but also on if the loser dies. Mufasa here has only killed once, but who knows with your juice firing him up.”

My hands curl around the iron. So, every time these feral alphas leave the cells, they’re fighting for their lives. It’s cruel and barbaric.

Mufasa’s arms bunch as he loads a few more punches before he pauses, balanced on his knees and toes. He leans in and snarls at the prone body, then backs off, stalking the perimeter of the ring. When he makes a full lap and the other alpha doesn’t move, a bell sounds. Colored lights flash above the closed-in arena.

“Well, there’s our answer.” Petrov gestures with his tablet toward the silent cell on the right. “Scar here is the killer. Eleven for twelve and that’s only because the kennel paid us to call him off the one time.”

Tears slide down my hot cheeks. “You’re sending them to their deaths.”

“Nah, we’re sending them to glory! It’s their choice if they live or die out there.” He swings my way. “Aw, are you crying for them, little Rose? Well maybe someone needs to.” He reaches through the bars and ruffles my hair, but I hiss at him and slap his hand away. “I think you’re our good luck charm, so cry all you want.”

I jerk away from his touch. “You’re a monster!”

“Thanks!” He sets the tablet down on the floor just out of reach and turns away to coordinate Mufasa’s return to his cell. The moment the gate to the ring opens, the feral alpha jogs down into the dark corridor, reappearing a moment later in the cell across from me. He comes straight to the bars, and I swear he’s checking if I’m still here.

Blood trickles down his face from a cut in his eyebrow and one eye is swollen shut. I whimper faintly, looking at the mess of his handsome body. Slick slides between my legs and while I could be disgusted, I chalk it up to my omega hormones and nature screwing me over. In ancient times, it was fighting like this that determined which alphas could claim omegas, so maybe my body is wired to respond to him with this primal attraction.

This man would have won the right to be my packmate—if we still lived in the dark ages.

Petrov looks Mufasa over. “Let’s get him stitched up.”

My gaze drops as the men wrestle him down onto the floor. On the screen, an amber light flashes and three men enter the fighting arena from the opposite chute to drag the unconscious alpha out the gate. Someone else scrubs at the blood, mopping up the excess without caring that it stains the floor. In fact, the rubber mat is a dusky salmon color and I wonder if that’s on purpose, or if it was once white but has been stained from so much spilled blood.

Once the ring is empty, there’s a short reprieve, until Petrov’s radio crackles into life, the alpha boss’s voice coming through the line. “Final match is called. Load Scar in the chute.”

“Roger that.”

The grating noise of the sliding door hurts my ears. Petrov’s men warily enter the last cell waving their metal prodders, and one cries out sharply as the silent alpha lashes out. A moment later they push him through the doorway.

On the screen, I see movement near the opposite arena gate. The opponent’s fighter already lurks in the chute, and he stiffens and comes to the bars, his snarling mouth wide open in an animal challenge as he presses against the metal.

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